Wonder

Today I'm a Parent

Call it a mother’s intuition or call it panic, I am taking Bombie to Kaiser today. She’s had pretty bad diarrhea for almost a week now (going on five days today) and calling the advice nurse and speaking with the doctor on call has not helped. This morning her crib looked like a crime scene and in the middle of it was my precious baby. When I gave her a bath, she just sat in the tub listlessly, which is very unlike her. Later, at breakfast, her eyes stared vacantly at nothing. So this time when I called, I insisted I see the doctor. Today. If they didn’t have an appointment for me, I was going to take her to the emergency room. (But, thank God, they do. This afternoon. So we’re waiting for James to come home and then we’re both going in with her.)

This kind of assertiveness is rare for me. I’m one of those people who worries excessively about inconveniencing others. Especially people that I deem to be authority figures – experts of any kind: doctors, teachers, cops, professionals and so on. And I can’t help but see how true the phrase really is, how having a baby really does change everything.

Maybe even me.

The weekend has been enlightening and oddly inspiring. If I haven’t thanked you God for sending me such a wonderful man to call my husband, let me do it now. Thank you. James has been the model of a patient, caring and yet disciplinarian parent. Last week we had some issues with Bombie being difficult and we started time-outs. This weekend she has been sick. And James has – with remarkable precision and intuition – gauged when she needed love and when she needed discipline. I was so in awe all weekend as he ditched his dinner to hold her and sit on the swing outside to make her feel better. He changed her nasty, smelly diapers and he even encouraged me to go to the bookstore like I was planning and not feel like I had to be with Bombie at all times. He did laundry maybe four times because the diapers just weren’t holding the diarrhea. And I was right by his side, I’d like to believe, but I was so stunned at how good he was at being a father that I couldn’t think of much else. (We’re using disposables for this sick period; the cloth diapers were worse!)

And through all this I’m learning something about love, an aspect of it that I hadn’t known before. As we each had dinner by ourselves so the other could hold and rock the baby, as we looked to each other for encouragement or so we didn’t lose the moment to frustration, I believe we learned something about love as duty. It is different. It’s entirely different, for instance, from the selfish love we felt when we were first married. It’s also entirely different from our usual romantic love, although it sure feeds directly into it. I guess you could say when I feel now raising our kids together is a mixture of admiration and pride in our little but growing family. And I can’t help but also feel humbled and grateful to have it and be a part of it.

I Made Bombie Laugh!

The Switch

We survived our first evening with cloth diapers! Cheers! Frankly, sometimes I wonder what the big deal is (or was! Because I was part of the "I could never do THAT group.)

Like most people I know, using cloth diapers seems a little extreme. Ewww... you're going to wash poop? Well, actually when Bombie was really tiny and exclusively breastfed, I did wash poop off her clothes. So it's not THAT different.

Here's the new routine: I'm using the regular 3 ply prefold Gerber diapers which I bought from Amazon. I have now mastered the angel fold and use pins to fasten the sides. Someone said pins are actually easier than Snappies and I'm pretty sure my mother used pins. I still recall how they looked, so there's a little nostalgia there I'm indulging. Then, she gets vinyl pants (also Gerber, also from Amazon) to cover.

We have a bucket in the bathroom with baking soda and water in it. For diapers that are just wet, they get thrown in just like that. The poopy ones are a little more work. Poop goes into the toilet and then the diapers get swished around in the toilet (after flushing, of course!) and then rinsed in the sink. Then they go into the diaper pail. I intend washing them every other day. We have 24. I think they'll last.

So far, Bombie has noticed no difference. If anything, I love how dry she is and how unchafed her skin looks when she is being changed. Lately it seemed like she had a rash every other day. She gets that from her father - James cannot stand any humidity at all.

All in all, I think this is a good change. It's saving money for sure. Bombie's diapers were costing about $30 a month, even with generic brands. With the new baby, it would be much higher. I just can't justify $50 in diapers every month. Plus, she's only going to get bigger and the bigger sizes cost more. Oh, also they say air-drying diapers makes them last longer. And that fits perfectly in my budget and lifestyle.

So far, my experience has been great. I give cloth diapers two thumbs up!

Frugal Living at its Finest!

I wrote about the recent crisis we're going through briefly on my other blog so I won't go into details here. Suffice it to say, my husband and I have had to both look deep within ourselves recently and our general relationship with money. I can safely say that Sunday May 31st 2009 was the worst day of my life. That was the day James and I had a serious discussion about what we were going to do to turn things around for us financially.

It was pretty damn scary.

It was also however pretty damn liberating because in a single evening I realized what was most important to me. In the midst of a crisis, everything became crystal clear. In order of importance, I ranked our family, our (and our children's) futures and then even our dearest possessions. To support those, we came up with a pretty serious plan. No frivolous spending, no "splurges," no going shopping for entertainment. I promised to keep a tight budget in the home. He promised to do whatever he could do support us with his job. (He already does everything he can, so obviously the majority of this onus was on me!)

We talked about how he was never taught about handling money responsibly by his parents and I shared how when I was born my parents were doing so much better financially that I never had to bear the burden of hard times. My brother - born more than a decade before me - saw poverty first-hand. And he still lives extremely simply. I should learn that.

"Should" has now almost become "have." After the scare of losing one's future (retirement) and one's present (this lovely, lovely home) one begins to respect it a lot more. No longer do I complain about loading dishes in the dishwasher. No longer do I complain about mopping the floors and keeping the home clean. No longer do I complain about cooking dinner. I'm just grateful things are working out for us. And I'm beginning to realize that even though my parents didn't exactly sit me down and give me the tools for managing money, they showed me how to live frugally simply by living that way themselves. Sure, they splurged every once in a while on things that mattered to them, but their everyday lives were a lesson in living simply and within their means. (Which is why, at 69 my father saves money out of the interest he receives from his investments and retired at 65. He was able to send me to study in the US with his retirement money and can travel to see his kids across the globe any time he wants!)

So I've become a coupon cutter and an expert at making dinners from scratch. I search frugal tips on the internet and turn off lights when I leave the room. I hang-dry our clothes and thank God for all I have and all I am. Tomorrow, here we come! Who knew having a baby would make me this much better as a person?

The Battle of Wills

Drumroll please! Here's Mommy on one side and Bombie on the other. Bombie screams in the crib and Mommy frets outside, paces the room and sets the timer for ten minutes. Bombie screams some more. Mommy frets some more, realizes it's only 2 minutes out of 10.

Bombie screams like she's hurt, like she's fallen out of the crib. Mommy goes in to check on her, picks her up and almost walks out with her. Then (thank God!) she remembers the battle and puts her back down. Bombie wails, thrashes, tries to get on her stomach. Her lower lip is quivering. She threatens to scream louder and louder. Mommy leaves the room, frets some more.

Two minutes later, silence. Bombie is asleep.

I WON!!! Well, at least for today.

The Baby Who Is!

My name is Purva Brown and I'm a babyholic. Call it baby-brain, call it what you will. But I've suddenly developed a penchant for all things baby. And not in an insane, third trimester of pregnancy way, but in a sticks around until you die kinda way.

This motherhood thing has changed me in unmentionable ways. I have begun watching Jon and Kate Plus Eight. Yes, kill me. Kill me now.

I have also begun deriving deep meanings from Bombie's actions. I don't see how it would be any different. As perhaps all mothers know, when the being who could barely move its neck whom you brought back from the hospital begins to crawl, your world shifts somewhat. You begin to lose some of your complacence about life. Your life.

Suddenly, this seven and a half pounder has turned eighteen pounds and now demands things to play with and eat. She's no longer content just lying around in wait for the next feeding. She's got opinions you will hear. Even if they're just sounds. And in some cases, she'll scream something that sounds like "IS!" at the top her voice.

Yes, she is! And don't you forget it. Don't get complacent. She is.

Happy Half Birthday, Bombie!

Dear Bombie,

You are six months old today. What a day to turn half a year - Valentine's Day! While you were still kicking around inside me last year, your Dad and I celebrated our last non-children Valentine's Day. We were both a little concerned about becoming parents, wondering who this new being was going to be and how she would change our lives.

And now, one year later, I think we were silly to worry. You have brought so much joy to our lives that I think Valentine's Day is the perfect half birthday for you. Because before you were born, we only experienced half the love we do now that we have you.

So don't grow up too fast. Because we want to hold on to these years as long as we possibly can. My baby. My little bombie.

Love,
Mommy.

Grace in Ordinary Things

The morning sun is shining on her (still) (almost) bald head.

Her thumb is in her mouth.

Her tummy feels so tight. So tiny and yet so full.

She is looking at the cat. And smiling.

And then she bursts out laughing with glee. Until she falls over on the couch.

I pick her up.

She's still laughing.

Mourning Mom

I mourned my mother last night. I've been mourning her for more than a year now, but I think it was different this time. This time, I missed her with no reservations. No judgment. No blame. This time, when I cried for her, I was in her arms. Surrounded by her smell, her soft arms I would rub in my hands and say felt like kneaded flour. Not hard like mine. And I would laugh. She would smile. Oh, the arrogance of youth.

I was twenty-nine when she died. I wasn't a mother.

I miss her now. And in missing her, I am inexorably drawn to miss my childhood, my teenage years, my youthful twenties. I miss knowing that my entire life is ahead of me. Possibilities are now crystallized into goals and everything is over thought and analyzed. Every decision has an end. Objectives have replaced dreams. There is a hard edge to imagination and there is never, ever enough time.

I want to relive that. I want to be able to ignore dishes in the sink and be perfectly, completely oblivious to laundry piling up. I want to surprise myself by stuffing something hot into my mouth without blowing on it first. I want to enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the worrying about gaining weight. I want to forget phrases like “glycemic index.”

And then I look at my three month old. I love how she sleeps with her hands by her side, a tiny perfect being on the seat of a couch and her defiant, confident cry that announces to whoever will listen that she is hungry. How she gives herself up wholly in her sleep, how she smiles with her entire body. I hate to think growing up is going to change that. I want to rescue her, but I cannot. I am on the other side of the river and I cannot carry her across. I can only throw out a mental bridge – soft as a cobweb – and hope she catches it. She has to bear her own weight, swim against her own tide.

I wish my mother was here to see me swim against mine.

Then again, there is a certain beauty in her not seeing me struggle through the ugly pupal stage of becoming an adult. Through her, in some small place in my heart, I can remain forever a child. I can waste time by sleeping in. I can burn my lips and never learn. I can get my clothes dirty in the rain and let my daughter do the same. It’s just as fine to throw a fit and cry over being bored in the summer. It’s all just fine. Because when you are a child in the world of mothers, everything is just all right.

It's a huge responsibility to be a mother to my daughter, this tiny being now nestled in my arms. But then again, it's the easiest thing in the world. I just have to be here. As long as I can. And I have to love her and hug her for a lifetime.

I am the bridge between my mother and my daughter. And I am here.